Tracing the lines to Orly Airport baggage gone missing $200 in my pocket, two months across the lonely continent. So tell me, where does the time go? Thirty years, another opusstripped bare of non-essentials. There are no fictions only roads that lead to impasse. Or the rotary so notorious it circles endlessly, the mind unyielding. I am the architect of my dreams I am floating, iridescent on the necklace of the sea, the horizon wavers in the distance unconditional without intention. I am fearless at the center of truth.

They never tunnel to the surface and if they do, you don’t hear them grunt and slither back through the soil drum heavy mounding nomadic obsessive-compulsive ravenous bio-mass eaters,pheromonal. Can’t get rid of the bloody things wrecking fantasies about art and risk, about timelessness and real intention.There's nowhere to go

over words and broken dreams the new emergestattered and worn as the last forgotten sceneplayed out but never endingtime elasticdates irrelevant the slow progression imperceptible but apparent.resistance a futile exercise in self flagellation whipping boy of desperate measureswild abandon, cognitive interruptus, coitus excess fading into oblivion, the weight liftinginterior by design.

out of the black holeimpossible, you say?no escape from critical mass frozen cortex no synapses firing.warning! warning! warning!the no hair theoremone thought indistinguishable from the next.with four million solar masses, please tell me, who the hell can think?looks inert on the outsidethe heat invisible, unbearable, insufferable from within,that stretchy membrane oscillating before the collapse.after the supernova explosions the clock slows at the approach of the event horizon,time is infinite, the light dimthe mind in gravitational redshift.if it takes forever to get there thenit takes forever and a day to return.

at the center of the galaxyall matter collapses.Schwarzschild's system of coordinates forms the boundaryof the bubble where time stops.beneath a membrane, hot with radiation and infinite possibilities, common objects, collapsed starsand supernova explosions hide behind the exterior. this is the creative process.what is left? the novel.

race as in color as in speedas in constitutional electionsor...The End. no one's really racing toward it, only searchingfor the plateau. a sigh, a shelf, content to know that everything lines up.well, almost everything. this place, thisrace, this love, this unexpected pleasure,the unexpected fall. what do we call it? inevitable, incomprehensible? unbelievableor too believable? all we know is the race to the finish and that's where we leave off.no one ever thought what it's like to arrivethere. no one ever thought...